


Short and Sweet (Like a Dessert Course)

by AZeroPhil (lookinglass)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anniversary, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Feelings in the Form of Sandwiches, Friendship/Love, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Lying for Free Dessert, M/M, Self-indulgent fluff, Short & Sweet, The Grumpy One is Soft For the Sunshine One, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 16:10:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20066827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookinglass/pseuds/AZeroPhil
Summary: "And are we celebrating anything this evening?” she asked. “Any birthdays or anniversaries?”“No, nothing like that,” Aziraphale replied. “Just out to dinner.”“Hypothetically speaking, if wewereto be celebrating something,” he asked, “What would that… entail? For future reference, of course.”Bonnie smiled and leaned in conspiratorially. “Free dessert. Anything you like.” She gestured to a standing card on the edge of the table. Crowley picked up the menu and started flicking through it with arched eyebrows. It was full of reasonably priced cocktails and an entire page of various sweets.“Wonderful,” Aziraphale replied. “We’ll have to remember that for later.”Crowley muttered as Bonnie walked away, “Probably get sung to. If you say it’s your birthday.”“Oh dear,” Aziraphale replied.





	Short and Sweet (Like a Dessert Course)

**Author's Note:**

> I've read the book about a dozen times, and I never shipped these two before the TV series. But here we are. Anyway, I couldn't get this little drabble out of my head. Many thanks to K for reading, giving me the title idea, and for the many hours of squealing with me over these two lovebirds.
> 
> Please enjoy <3

In the days and months after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, things had settled considerably on Earth. Atlantis and its peoples had sunk gently (if alarmingly) back into the sea, the sky had returned to its usual dismal grey, and no flying saucers had been reported in some weeks.1

Indeed, everything that had been disturbed by Adam and the horsemen seemed to have gone right back the way it was. Crowley’s beloved Bentley hadn’t a scratch on it2, and the book shop and all of its contents were once again pristine. It was good. It was all fine, really.

Aziraphale wouldn’t say that he’d fallen, but he’d certainly… tripped. And Crowley was, well, Crowley. They’d just met somewhere in the middle. Just human enough for appearances’ sake, and just bewildering enough to be left alone by the suits upstairs and the slouches in the basement. For the first time in millennia, their affairs were well and truly their own.

Their well-worn routine remained the same at first, as neither one of them hardly dared believe that it could be _that easy_. But after a time, subtle changes filtered in. Faced with boundless time (and blessed with endless patience), Aziraphale began to extend his business ventures beyond just the collecting (and apparent selling) of books. He started to take on the arduous task of restoring ancient texts, and it soon became clear that there was no more experienced nor knowledgeable a historian/conservator in the whole of Britain, much less in London alone.

Crowley had taken up the occasional competitive card game. He was rather good at them, and no one ever gave his sunglasses a second look.

Through it all were the usual walks in the park, the uproariously drunken debates in the back room of the book shop, and of course, breakfast, brunch, tea time, lunch and dinner. As the months went by, Crowley and Aziraphale steadily worked their way through the hottest eateries in London together, sampling the best that the city had to offer. And offer she did.

They had already worked their way through the Top 50 Restaurants ranked by Londoners (according to the London Evening Standard) and had taken to browsing the streets on foot, looking for anything with an appealing menu.

Tonight’s fare was The Purple Hen, a chic little place in Knightsbridge whose illustrated sign had delighted Aziraphale. They were seated at a rustic barnwood booth. Tasteful tin advertisements covered the walls.

“Evening, dears,” a pleasant older human addressed them both, setting napkins and menus in front of each of them. “Welcome to The Purple Hen! I’m Bonnie, and I’ll be taking care of you this evening.”

Aziraphale smiled politely. “It’s very nice to meet you, Bonnie.”

Bonnie beamed. “You as well! And are we celebrating anything this evening?” she asked. “Any birthdays or anniversaries?”

“No, nothing like that,” Aziraphale replied. “Just out to dinner.”

“Well, welcome in, loves,” Bonnie continued without missing a beat. “What can I bring you to drink?”

“Interesting of her to ask,” Aziraphale said when she’d gone.

When she returned again with their drinks and a basket of fresh bread and jams, Aziraphale wasted no time in spreading butter thoughtfully on a roll. 

“Hypothetically speaking, if we _were_ to be celebrating something,” he asked, “What would that… entail? For future reference, of course.”

Bonnie smiled and leaned in conspiratorially. “Free dessert. Anything you like.” She gestured to a standing card on the edge of the table. Crowley picked up the menu and started flicking through it with arched eyebrows. It was full of reasonably priced cocktails and an entire page of various sweets.

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale replied. “We’ll have to remember that for later.”

Crowley muttered as Bonnie walked away, “Probably get sung to. If you say it’s your birthday.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale replied.3

When the waitress returned with their meals, he asked, “Is there any _singing_?”

Bonnie tapped the side of her nose. “No singing for anniversaries.”

With a wink, she left the table. The two were left to finish their meals and pore over the dessert menu together.

\--

The next afternoon, they were out to lunch at a posh little place of Crowley’s choosing—all austere white linens and crystal goblets. They’d no sooner been seated at a table than Aziraphale asked the waiter what he could offer by means of celebration. “It’s our anniversary,” Aziraphale confided.

The waiter turned a shade of pink, but recovered quickly. “I’ll see what we can do, sirs,” he said, and walked away.

“Maybe not the place for it,” Crowley offered.

“Quite,” Aziraphale agreed.

But shortly thereafter, their waiter returned with a ten-year-old bottle of Gosset Grand Blanc and assured them that it was on the house.

Aziraphale looked pleased with himself as Crowley sampled the champagne. “Well, cheers, my dear,” he said.

They toasted.

“Y’know,” Crowley said, halfway through the bottle, “I’ve got all this extra space. In my flat,” he gestured with his glass, presumably Eastward.

Aziraphale hummed.

“What do I need all of those extra rooms for? And you,” now he gestured in Aziraphale’s direction, “You’ve got all these books and scrolls, and. Things. Hardly any space for it. Curled up on yourself at your little desk. You should take one of my rooms. The one off the dining room, maybe. ‘S got lots of windows. I could put some plants in there, I know how much you like ‘em.”

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale agreed. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face as they clinked glasses for a second time.

\--

The next day, there appeared a large, modern desk taking up the Northern wall in one of Crowley’s spare bedrooms4, and by the week’s end there was also a standing table facing the window, a row of shelving, and a plush sofa against the opposite wall. Aziraphale took it all in for a moment before beginning to delicately arrange his tools. Crowley watched him work from his perch on the loveseat.

By Saturday night, they’d sampled six more restaurants and had gotten lucky twice with free dessert. Several times, they’d received an apologetic reply that the establishment didn’t offer free dessert for anniversaries, but they both agreed wordlessly that it wouldn’t be worth the trouble to claim a birthday instead.

Only once, the waiter had been outwardly rude about the nature of an anniversary between (what appeared to be) two men, and Crowley had leaned in closely to give the man some insight into what was really a sin and what wasn’t, before standing and loudly announcing that if their patronage wasn’t wanted, then they would just take their business elsewhere. Aziraphale watched on as the manager came by to bestow his apologies and offer them their meal for free. The small-minded waiter was dismissed, and the two sampled each other’s steak and crab bisque.

“See,” Crowley had said, “my lot never cared about all that.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, nor did mine. Strange how humans get things so twisted up, don’t you think?”

\--

On Monday, Azirphale was called with a generous offer for a new restoration, and by the next morning was already hunched over his work. That afternoon, a cheese sandwich was sat down in front of him (but slightly off to the side, so as not to be on top of the ancient texts he was bent over).

Aziraphale wondered for a moment at the fact that he didn’t really need to eat, but Crowley knew that. He simply turned to give his companion a genuine smile.

“Thank you, darling,” he said, and Crowley just nodded before slipping some crisps off of his plate and settling in for a while on the sofa.

\--

They were back out to dinner by Tuesday night, and the game was afoot once more. “It’s our anniversary,” Crowley mentioned to the waitress. “What’ve you got?”

“Oh, how wonderful,” the woman replied. They’d learned that, in general, the female mortals were less put-off by the whole business than the males were.

“How many years is it?” She asked, and Crowley pushed out his lower lip in thought. He turned to Aziraphale.

“Can’t even remember, can you, angel?”

The waitress made an adoring sound. “Oh, that’s just like me and my Benny. Been so long, can’t remember how long it’s been!”

She dropped off their meals and a dessert menu, and later on they toasted each other over a slice of triple chocolate cake.

“Well, here’s to a fresh start,” Crowley said.

“Thank you again,” Aziraphale replied. “For your hospitality.”

Crowley licked his fork clean. “’S not hospitality,” he insisted. "It’s where you belong, I say. Only natural, don’t you think? Been long enough.”

Aziraphale couldn’t hide a soft smile.

They polished off the cake, and Crowley dragged his finger through the icing left on the plate.

“We don’t really _need_ all of this free dessert,” Aziraphale said. He’d begun to feel a bit guilty about all of the lying.

“Relax,” Crowley assured him. “I’m tipping 25%.”

\--

“How long do you suppose it _has_ been?” Aziraphale wondered aloud. It was Thursday, and they were having lunch in Holborn. “That we've been together, I mean?”

Crowley pursed his lips, looking up to the ceiling in thought. “Well, it was Eden, wasn't it? When we first met,” he did the calculations in his head. “So that was about… six millennia ago. And I s’pose it's been about 2,000-odd years since we made, you know, ‘the arrangement.’”

“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded. “I imagine just about that long.”

“But,” Crowley continued, swirling his tea about in its cup, “I couldn't really say how long it's been, exactly. I couldn’t give you a date, for example, when we…” He trailed off, but Aziraphale knew what he meant.

“No, nor could I,” he finished for him.

They lapsed into a thoughtful but comfortable silence until the waitress brought out their sandwiches.

“I think we’ve always sort of,” Crowley continued once the waitress had gone. “Y’know.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Maybe you,” he said, but his eyes were playful.

“No,” he said, after a time. “I rather think you’re right.”

“I suppose it's Eden, then,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale had to agree.

“The eighth day, if I remember correctly, which would’ve been a Friday, wouldn't it? So that’d make it… 6,024 years next Tuesday. Blimey, looks like it is coming up on our anniversary, after all.”

“Imagine that,” Aziraphale smiled. He flagged down their waitress.

“Might we see your wine list?” He asked, and then, conspiratorially, “It's our anniversary.”

The young waitress gave a genuine smile with a hand to her chest. “Oh, that's lovely. How long have you been together, if you don't mind my asking?”

Aziraphale gave a small smile in Crowley’s direction. “Oh dear, when you’ve been together as long as we have, it’s hard to keep track.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “I dunno, feels like about 6,000 years to me.”

They shared an absolutely marvelous crème brûlée, taking turns pouring more Château Margaux into each other's glasses.

“Well, happy anniversary, then,” Aziraphale said over his wine. 

Crowley raised his up.

“Here's to eternity, angel.”

Aziraphale clinked Crowley’s glass with his own.

“Here's to us.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Well, there _were_ a handful of UFO sightings across Reno, Nevada, but that was normal enough.
> 
> 2 Though each and every cassette tape inside it had miraculously returned to its original form. Aziraphale had unceremoniously snuck the soundtrack to “Bohemian Rhapsody” into the Bentley to compensate.
> 
> 3 In all seriousness, Aziraphale loved singing. It was one of his favorite parts of being an angel, in fact. The singing, the listening to singing, the being sung to and with. But he and Crowley had been to enough human restaurants over the years that he knew for certain how little _anyone_ enjoyed the experience of being sung to or having to sing in public, least of all the wait staff.
> 
> 4 Crowley’s flat was modern and spartan, and sported four completely superfluous bedrooms. The fifth _did_ have a bed in it, but it hadn’t ever been used and was mostly there for appearances. Crowley gave Aziraphale the one facing Eastward with the most natural light.


End file.
